School Days
by Simon920
Summary: Brian's high school teachers talk about him.


**School Days**

He stood out, right from the first day. That's what I remember about him the most.

He was striking looking, of course, but the thing that really caught my attention was the attitude. When you teach in a high school classroom you get to spot that pretty fast, especially on the first day. You know, you want to pick out who the troublemakers might be so you can keep an eye on them. He was one of those from the second he walked in the door and he was the worse kind because he was probably smarter than anyone in the school and he knew it.

He was a new kid, a transfer, and I wondered about that. I know it's hard to be new—especially in a school like this one where the kids have all known one another since kindergarten. You know how they can be all clique-y and nasty to someone who doesn't meet whatever their standards are on a given day. They all have their groups and even if they don't fit in, everyone knows pretty much all there is to know about everyone else. They all know who are the jocks or the brains or the class beauties or the losers—a new kid is a sore thumb, at least for a while until they seek out their own level. It's a little like water when you think about it. They rise or fall. They sink or swim. There will be some nibbles from the groups who like the look of the new arrival—like the clothes or the walk, like the way they handle themselves in the locker room or the classroom or the cafeteria. The kids find their places soon enough. Well, at least most of them do anyway.

I was teaching the third period AP English class and had just given a pop quiz to see who knew what about the summer reading I'd sent home and had followed it up with a series to questions I threw out, just to see who would raise their hand to give the questions a shot.

The new kid, Brian, just looked out the window, bored.

Well, fine, I'd taught long enough to not put up with that sort of thing the first day. I walked over to him, stood right next to him and saw the attitude at he oh-so-slowly turned his head from the view of the woods outside and looked up at me.

"What were Franny and Zooey famous for when they were children?"

He looked me up and down, almost laughed in my face then gave the right answer. "They were on a children's quiz show called It's a Wise Child.'"

"Who fathered Hester Prynne's baby?"

"Reverend Dimmesdale."

The class became interested in what was going on.

"Can you tell me what the Red Badge of Courage was?"

"A bloody bandage from a wound in battle."

"What was across the water in The Great Gatsby?"

"The green light." I remember nodding at him. "How many of the books on the list did you read this summer?"

"All of them."

"Twenty-three books? You were only asked to read two." He didn't bother answering, just looked at me then turned his head to look out the window again. In three years of having him in my AP English classes, I never once caught him unprepared on a single assignment. The other teachers I talked to about him said the same thing.

He was probably the smartest kid I met and the most impenetrable. I knew there was something going on there, and though I had my suspicions, I never found out what it was—not with enough surety to do anything about it, anyway. I guess I just let it go.

I feel bad about that now. I really do, but that was before you had to turn in that sort of thing. People didn't want to get involved and it was easier to let things slide.

Besides, he got straight A's. I figured that he had to be alright

* * *

He showed up for the first day of soccer tryouts, this tall skinny kid with a snotty look about him. I didn't like him right from the get go but I would have had a hard time explaining why I kept him off the squad since even when he was a freshman I knew he was one of the best I'd get coming out for the team. The pisser was that the other kids knew it, too.

Hell, I don't know, maybe that's what pissed me of about him at the beginning. He was too good to get rid of.

I had to put him on the first string, too, after Wierzbowski broke his ankle the second week. I hesitated to do it since he was the only freshman I had on the squad, but he was the best kid I had to take up the slack. I was afraid that the older boys would rag him, make things rough for him, give him a hard time, but it didn't turn out that way. I didn't really understand that at the time and I didn't give it all that much though. Hell, maybe if I had I would have gotten the whole thing sooner.

Well, like the kids say—whatever.

The kid I had as captain—Keith—seemed to take Kinney under his wing so no one messed with him. That was good, you know? Some of the jocks can make trouble, but with someone looking out for him, he seemed to do just fine.

Y'know, I didn't even clue in to the fact that he was a fag until he was like a senior and even then I wasn't sure. I heard the rumors and all of that, but I never saw anything myself to make me think he was a queer. I just figured that the other kids were jealous because he was younger and better than they were. That was the sort of thing that could turn some of the dumber ones against him, but he always seemed to handle himself just fine.

He could give a comeback quicker than anyone I ever saw...faster and nastier than the kids could return, like he was slamming a tennis ace at their ankles where they couldn't return it.

There was that one episode where he slammed The D'Angelo kid's hand in the locker and it was pretty nasty, but shit—there are kids we're talking about here. They do stupid things sometimes. It's what they do, you know? Sure, I yelled at Kinney, even thought about benching him for a game or two but in the end I let it go with a good warning. He seemed to listen, it never happened again.

I found out he's a queer after he graduated. One of the other teachers told me about it—even had the balls to tell me that some shit had gone on right under my nose. Yeah, well, bullshit to that. I don't believe it. I woulda known, y'know? I know my kids and I sure as hell know the people I work with.

It never happened. Not in my locker room. No fucking way.

* * *

Smart kid.

That's what everyone said about him, about the Kinney boy. He was such a smart kid. Then in the next breath they'd tell you why they didn't want him in their class.

He was too much trouble. He was a smart ass, a wise acre, a troublemaker from the word go. He had attitude, a chip on his shoulder, a mouth on him. He was a pain in the ass.

They were all right, too—until you took the trouble to win the kid's respect and that wasn't an easy thing to do. I did it and it took me the better part of the first marking period to do it and then it came about by accident.

He walked in that first day, late, reeking of cigarette smoke and sat over by the windows while the class giggled and waited to see what I'd do about it. I'd seen this one before and God knows his name made the rounds in the teachers lounge. He was one of the kids the entire faculty seemed to know, whether they had him in a class or not—he was just one of those kids who attracted attention and usually not because he'd aced another test.

So at first I just ignored his shit, and God knows he threw enough of it to sink a freighter...well, you know, now that I think about it that's not really true.

He didn't really throw shit and he wasn't all that much of a troublemaker, at least not to me. He would just sit there, obviously bored out of his mind, mark time until the period was over then leave. His assignments were always in on time and he aced every test. He just ignored me. He seemed to ignore the kids in the room, too—he would come in, sit down and go about his own agenda. He was usually quiet enough, but somehow had an air about him that made it clear that he wouldn't take any crap from anyone and so no one tried. It was as though he lived in his own world, probably a mental one, and he only touched base with the rest of us when he had to.

In fact I would have laid odds that he might not even know my name until the day I stopped that fight out in the hall between classes.

There were a few of the football jocks, some of the young and dumb ones and they were picking on this small kid. I don't know who the victim was, but he was small and skinny and scared to death. The Kinney boy was trying to take on about three of the bullies when I came by and he was giving as good as he got but he was outnumbered and it looked like the little kid he was defending was about to be stuffed into a locker or a toilet.

I think I pulled the biggest one, the leader of the pack, off and I suspect that I would have been punched next if they hadn't seemed to clue in that hitting a teacher would be a bad move...probably get them kicked off the team and they sure as Hell didn't want that to happen.

I broke it up, the kids went on their way and I was left there with Kinney and the kid, both of them bloody but neither of them badly hurt. The other kid seemed close to tears and Kinney said something about how it was alright, it was over and the kid gave him this look of gratitude you could have used as a poster to define the word.

It was the looks that were exchanged between the two boys that caught me. The small kid looked like he'd just found his savior, and maybe he had. The look Kinney gave me was the first one I'd seen where he actually connected with someone. He looked right at me for a long second, said "Thanks" and nodded for emphasis.

From that day on he paid attention in class and his work got even better. He spoke up, and when he had something to say the other kids listened. He still didn't seem to care in the least about the other kids or the other teachers, but we formed an attachment that afternoon that lasted the rest of his years in the school. He would show up in the history office during a free period or lunch and make himself at home. We'd talk about this and that, current events and I'd tell him about my wife and family. He surprised me the day he handed me a wrapped present—he knew my wife was due in about a week— it was a baby blanket, handmade and likely bought at a church bazaar or some such. He didn't say anything, just handed it to me.

He was a special kid, and I mean that in a good way.

I remember telling him once, during one of our talks when he was a senior; I told him that I hoped he found his niche.

I hope he did. I liked him.

* * *

I think the first thing I noticed about him that day was that he moved stiffly, like he was in pain. You know, like maybe he'd pulled a muscle in his back or something. He'd been in my class all year and he had shown me less attitude than he had some of the others, but I can't say that he ever really cared anything about my class other than adding another A' to his transcript. He'd come in, answer every question I put to him, write the essays and take the tests and make it clear that he was going through the motions. I was tempted to give him a B' or a C' simply because I knew he could have done even better, but I didn't bother. I guess that was how it stood most of the year—I didn't bother him and he didn't bother me.

Then I saw the edge of the bruise on his neck and I don't just mean a hickey. Either he'd had a hell of a practice at football or somewhere or someone had beaten the crap out of him and my money was on the latter.

He didn't complain and none of the other kids offered to help. They seemed almost to be afraid of him and I had gotten the feeling that he didn't have too many friends. That sort of surprised me a little. He was a handsome boy and obviously intelligent. He was on at least one of the varsity teams that I knew about and he had that sort of polished attitude about him that usually had girls throwing themselves at the boys. You know what I mean, that attitude of he could take you or leave you but you'd be damn lucky if he even looked your way.

He was a good student but usually kept to himself. His work was always good and his thoughts about the different theories we would go over in the reading were always insightful and original even though I had the feeling that he was doing his work with his left hand and his mind was about a hundred miles away.

He was one of the standouts, no question about it so the day he just sat there, seemingly in too much pain to stand up after the bell rang I paid attention. I remember walking over to him, looking down at him and asking if he was alright.

He insisted that he was but the fact that he was having trouble standing gave lie to it. I thought I knew what had happened so I lifted up the back of his tee shirt and saw the welts. They were red and ugly and a few of them that weren't completely scabbed over were still oozing blood, which had soaked through the fabric. If the shirt hadn't been black it would have been more obvious, but maybe that was why he choose that one. Someone had beaten the crap out of him using more than their hands. He'd been whipped with something and it was probably something heavy—a belt or a chain.

I asked him who had done it and after making an obvious decision to answer me he admitted that it was his father. I got the feeling that he was admitting something to me he didn't to many people.

I knew all about that, I'd been through the same shit growing up with my own father—long may he rot in Hell.

So I started talking to him about it, about knowing what he was going through and how he had to get out. He looked like he was about to deny it, but then he just started talking—about his father beating him, about his mother's lack of reaction, about how his sister would cope by simply closing her door. He insisted that he had a safe house to go to, to escape, that he had a friend whose mother let him stay whenever he needed it and that he knew where they kept the spare key and that he used it about once a week.

Once a week—Jesus. That's a lot of getting away when you're still only about fifteen.

So I got him down to the nurses office and washed off the blood, gave him a spare shirt that I kept in the teachers lounge and told him to call me if he wanted to talk or needed help with anything. To my surprise he was waiting for me when I walked out to my car that afternoon and I drove him to a local park where he told me the whole story—about being beaten, about being gay and how he was getting the grades so that he'd get a scholarship so that he could make a decent life for himself. Until then, and he had two years or more until that could happen, he was keeping his head down and counting the days.

I told him that his secrets were safe with me when he asked me not to say anything to anyone, and that he could crash at my place anytime he needed to.

Oh, and I told him that I'm gay, too. He gave me a look like he was wondering if I'd take it out in trade if he took me up on my offer and I made it clear that I liked my job too much to risk it for a piece of ass, even one as nice as his.

He did come over to my place after that. I would hear the knock or the phone ringing and then he'd be there and always with a new bruise or another cracked rib or another black eye.

I asked him why he didn't call the cops and he had trouble with that.

Finally, after a couple of J's one weekend in my living room he told me, so quietly that I had to strain to hear him, that he knew that his parents really loved hi. He knew it and one of these days they'd show him

It never happened, of course, but I suspect that Brian never stopped hoping—never.

* * *

There was another report on my desk about the Kinney boy. This made four of them since Thanksgiving and I was getting tired of seeing his name. Pain in the ass kids.

There are over three thousand students in this school and I have more to do with my days than worry about one spoiled smart ass lace Irish prince.

First there would be a phone call from whatever teacher suspected something this week, then there would be meetings followed by the damn reports in triplicate. After that would be the damn Guidance people waiting to have one of their endless meetings to discuss why this one was depressed or that one wasn't working up to his potential or why some kids decided to have the baby at fifteen.

You want to know what I think? I think these kids are a bunch of spoiled brats with too much money and too much time and not enough of ever having heard the word no' when they were growing up.

Every damn one of them thinks the world owes them a living, every damn one.

The damn Kinney kid—there's one for you. Smart as a whip and he sure as hell knows how to play the system. Every time there's a math test or an English essay due I can count on his name being bandied about because he's got a nother black eye. You can count on it.

Oh, sure, the teachers all say he's too smart to have to do that and that his grades are good enough for anyone to be proud of but I know how these kids work.

They think he's abused? Bullshit. The kid is a troublemaker and has been since the first day. He gets into fights? No kidding. Of course he does with an attitude like the one he has. He doesn't have many friends? Well, if he weren't such a smartass maybe he'd have himself a couple of pals to play with.

And that's another thing—those rumors that the kid is a fag and that he gets hassled sometimes because of it.

Oh, please—you're breaking my heart here.

The kid is a fag? I don't think so. He's a good-looking boy, sure he is, but I've seen the looks the girls give him when he walks down the halls. That one can have his pick and you think I believe for a minute hat he's not doing plenty of picking? Damn right he is. He's picking them right and left.

Fag, my ass.

He's just a spoiled little snot who should have been shown some discipline before it was too late to make a difference.

* * *

Well, I know that I always liked him, anyway. Most of the others thought that he was a problem right from the beginning, but I never did. I knew his reputation but he never lived up to it, not in my class, anyway.

He was in his seat the first day—every day, really—and he was always prepared and he certainly always knew the material. I don't think he ever scored less than the high nineties on a single test or quiz.

And he was never rude to me—not once. He was sweet, really and I could never understand why the others seemed to have so much trouble with him.

I think the first time I saw him might have made the difference. I was walking into the school the first day of the school year and I was carrying all of my things with me. I had some books and my sweater since I got cold in those big drafty classrooms and my tea mug along with a box of tea bags. I had an extra pair of shoes and that pillow I like to put behind my back in the teachers lounge. I had my knitting bag, too, since I like to work on my Christmas presents during my free periods. Well, I don't know what happened but I simply stumbled on the front steps and everything went flying.

There were a group of boys there, nasty things they were, and they started laughing. Well, this tall skinny thing walked right over to me, right past the nasty ones, and started picking up my belongings and then he helped me inside and carried everything right to my biology classroom for me. He went slowly, too so that I could keep up with him with his long legs.

He was in my honors biology class and he was as sweet as pie to me. Even when he moved on to chemistry and advanced biology and physics he would come back to visit with me. He'd walk in during lunch and just sit himself down with an apple and munch away while we chatted about this and that. I'd tell him about my grandchildren and how they were doing and how proud I was of them and I'd tell him stories about some of the students I'd taught over the years.

Sometimes I'd tease him about how he was turning into a heartbreaker and he'd just blush and laugh and say he didn't think so, but I knew better. He liked going out and having fun and one day I sat him down and told him that I wanted to have a serious talk with him and he did— he just sat there and heard me out and he listened, too.

I told him that it was alright to have his fun—I'll bet he never thought that he'd hear that from an old lady like me!—but that he had to be careful. I told him that unless he wanted to pay the piper more than he'd like to he had better promise me that he always wore his raincoat.

Well, he laughed and laughed when I said that, but I made him promise me that he would and he finally did promise and I told him that I expected him to keep his promises.

He kissed me on the cheek—he was still laughing—but he promised me that he'd be careful.

I know some of the other teachers thought that poor darling was an abused child and I suspect that they were right but none of them ever did anything to really help the sweet boy I knew. Oh, there was one who tried to help, that history teacher who would let Brian stay with him when he needed to get away and that was good of him, but I think that he was the only one. None of the others understood that all he really needed was to have someone care about him and I did that.

I cared about him quite a lot, in fact. I started to think about him almost like he was one of my own grandchildren and when he was about to graduate I knew he'd come to see me before he left and so I was ready when he showed up one day with his apple. He came in like usual and when he was settled I opened the bottom drawer of my old desk and took out the sweater I'd made him. It was all black because I knew he liked black and it was a good heavy fisherman's knit with cables running up the front and the back and even on the sleeves and a nice fold over turtleneck so he would be nice and warm.

I don't think anyone had ever given that sweetheart anything like that before because I don't think he knew what to do. He just held that sweater in his hands like he couldn't believe it then put those long arms of his around me and just about hugged the breath right out of me. He held on so long that I knew he was trying to get some control of himself. I could hear that his nose was running and I could feel his shoulders shaking for a couple of minutes before he let me go.

He kissed my cheek and thanked me but I think that he was a little embarrassed and so other than the graduation ceremony I didn't see him again until he was on the news years later when that boy was hurt at that school dance and it turned out that Brian had been his date. I'd heard from him, though. He would write me letters about his college and his job, but he never told me that he was a homosexual. I think he was afraid that I would disapprove, although I don't really care one way or the other. My grandson Jimmy is gay and he seems happy with that. He certainly doesn't seem unhappy at any rate.

One Wednesday afternoon I was down on Liberty Avenue, meeting Jimmy at that little diner on his dinner break from the bookstore. I was in one of the booths along the wall talking to my grandson when a tall man with a smaller blonde sat in the next booth over. The tall man had his back to us, but he looked familiar. I watched him for a few minutes and when Jimmy left to use the gents I got up to see who it was I was looking at.

He was older and even taller than he had been—he had to bend way down to hug me and kiss my cheek—but he looked even more handsome than he had when he was in high school and that old sweater he was wearing had held up well.


End file.
